


Defining Evil

by Zalphon



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Planescape, Planescape: Torment
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 12:03:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3895609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zalphon/pseuds/Zalphon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In every man, there is a darkness.  In the greatest of men, it is a symbol of what they could become if they do not continuously stand vigilant against it.  In others, it is the thing which gives them resolve.  It is the only thing which keeps them alive and it is the only thing which gives them meaning.</p>
<p>Alarid is by no means one of the greatest of men, and thus he must learn to embrace what he is.  He must learn to become the thing he has always loathed most.  He must become a killer.  He must become a murderer.  He must let his blood chill colder than the Gelugons of Caina.  If he should fail, then his life will be forfeit to the apathetic, unforgiving Multiverse which seems to have no place for him.</p>
<p>But is he strong enough?  Will he melt away his humanity in order to survive, or will he become the thing which he hates most?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

_"When you look into the hearts of those who carved the way for that which we paint as righteous and just, and those who gripped empire's tightly in their iron fists of tyranny, there is only one difference.  One is unfettered and the other is fettered, but both are psychopaths."_

So very much can happen in a single moment.  Children break the final threshold and are officially considered to have been born in a single moment.  Somebody expels their final breath in that same moment.  A man shakes the hand of a powerful benefactor sealing a deal that will ultimately spell his doom, and that too, takes place in a single moment.  And it is in that moment that Alarid Ravan signed his name into the _Dead-Book._

Perhaps he had not literally taken a quill and been so blunt as to pen his signature, but he had done something which would ensure it would be done in a short time.  How short depended upon a variety of things.  If he was smart enough to evade the _Harmonium_ and the _Mercykillers_ being high on that list.  Something which he normally considered to be something even a _Clueless_ could do, but apparently he was not as smart as he thought.

That became abundantly evident when he stared down at the man.  The man who was struggling to get just one more breath.  But they both knew that it wasn't going to happen.  The blood draining from his carotid and jugular was gushing as a river after a flood; his lungs were beginning to fill with liquid.  A liquid of near-black and brilliant red coalescing as it slid into the open wound.  There was something-- _beautiful_ \--about it.  Something strangely sublime..

It wasn't simply beautiful though.  It was more than that.  It was a primal painting using the truest of all paints, blood.  His body was little more than a canvas which when cut allowed the painting to emerge from within.  Something majestic.  No, not majestic; this was _divine_.

Alarid was lost in what he could only describe as a mural in the making.  He took pleasure when he did that.  It was an instinctual, knee-jerk reaction and what had come of it?  Something amazing.  Something grand.  Something not belonging of this world, but trapped within it.  Oh the feeling of sweet exaltation when he saw it.  

The silver hair in front of his eyes was brushed aside so that he could truly see the face of the dying man.  He wanted to visualize this face; he wanted to never forget it.  The cause of such sublime exaltation.   _"This isn't what you are, Alarid,"_ his mind jolted in response to the surge of emotion.   _"You are too much like him; this is what he would do."_

His eyes focused on the man who was struggling to push himself up.  Alarid just shook his head and let out a sad sigh.  This man truly believed he had a fighting chance.  That he would survive this.  At least, that was how he was acting.  Such tenacity, such perseverance, and it would not matter.  The _Berk_ would die.  His name unremembered and his only legacy would be the fact that his death would bring the Tiefling's.  Such a disappointing life this man had lived, at least, that was how Alarid saw it.

Ravan stomped on the man's back, pressing him into the ground.  He knelt closer and grabbed the man's thick mane of black hair and pressed his face into the pool of blood growing on the alley ground.  In a single moment, that man's life was ended.  In that moment, the Tiefling's dagger that had cut this man's throat found the base of the skull and plunged inward directly into the brain stem.  The _Basher_ was dead.

The Tiefling slowly withdrew the stiletto and stared at the hole.  Blood seeped out and ran down the curvature of his skull in tiny streams.  Tiny, red streams.  Painting yet another picture, but this one not quite the same.

This mural told of a _Deader_.  A man who would never breathe another mouthful of the Foundry's smog, nor would he ever feel the tickle of a sword glancing his side.  He would never feel the embrace of a loved one again, nor would he enjoy another glass of Arborean Wine.  No, this would never know any of those things again.  That was what being dead was.  The end of existence mattering.  

Alarid rose to his feet and stared for a long time.  He watched as the blood dried and encrusted on the armor.  There was no sense of victory, no sense of triumph; there was only a somber feeling on his mind.  A feeling that it could have been him if the _Berk_ had drawn his blade instead of slammed him against that wall.  It could have been.  It should have been.  But it was not.  And in the end, that was all that mattered.  That it was not.  For even if the greatest empires of _Primes_ should've conquered the Planes in all their entirety, they did not.  And that is all that matters.  It would always be all that matters too.

He brushed the stiletto's blade against his pants.  The linen trousers were covered in a plethora of stains.  So many so that the original color was a mystery even to him.  He slid the blade back into the small leather sheath at his belt and walked away.  His foot steps slow as to not give the appearance of going anywhere.  Yes, that was the idea.  He wasn't going anywhere.  Just another lie to add to the web he had spun already.

In reality, he knew exactly where he was going.  The _Tavern of the Last Hope_.  It would be there where he could find him-- _Galter_.  Galter knew Sigil like the back of his hand and knew where all the _important_  portals were.  And that is exactly what Alarid needed.  A portal that would lead him to the Prime, or anywhere not of the Lower Planes really.  That is exactly what he needed.

His stomach seemed to knot as he heard it.  The gentle screech of metal plates screeching against one another.   _"Hardheads,"_ Ravan thought as the color drained from his face. _"And where there's one, there will always be more."_

The cadence to which he stepped seemed to speed up.  Every stride farther and the frequency between the strides grew faster.  Sigil was a city of doors and he was vehemently working on finding the one he cared about most at this moment.  The one which Galter was behind.  That was all that mattered at this moment.  And it was upon reaching this door that all else rested upon.  Everything.  At least everything which the Tiefling cared about.  He had to get to the _Tavern of the Last Hope_.  He simply had to.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alarid finds himself on a quest to escape the Cage knowing his death is inevitable if he should remain. But it is as he leaves that he looks at his home one last time and reminisces, for who knows how long it could be before he shall see it again?

**Chapter One: The Alpha and the Omega**

_"At every point in our life, we are given choices. Choices which define the rest of their life, no matter how insignificant they may seem. These choices are the Alpha and the Omega. They are the beginning of our new fate and the death of our old one. These are the moments in which we are defined and given form from matter."_

Blood pumped through his body with what under normal circumstances, would be an alarming amount of pressure. But these were not normal circumstances. Normal circumstances did not typically include what many mocking referred to as _Tiefling Acrobatics_. Running as fast as one can through a crowded street and doing one's best to dodge as many _bashers_ as one can.

Alarid swerved, swayed, and performed all other manner of maneuvers in hopes of avoiding the plethora of people of all different species, genders, and creeds in the _Clerk's Ward_. However one thing that they all shared was an element of refinement; as was to be expected in the heart of bureaucracy. These were the people who had chosen to live a life in line with what was expected of them, at least, that's what Ravan had always figured it was. But at the moment, that wasn't something he was particularly concerned with.

The beautiful architecture of the _Clerk's Ward_ slowly degenerated as he ran. The immaculate marble grew to develop cracks and chips. The beauty of the _Clerk's Ward_ seemed as though it was being siphoned away as he got closer and closer towards it. Towards a place where the grasp of the Law ( _The Harmonium,_ or _Hardheads)_ was weakest.

This place was a ward of _Sigil_ that many regarded as a blemish upon the otherwise immaculate. Alarid did not see it as a black mark upon an otherwise pristine city, though. He saw it for what it was. The place where all of the city's untouchables found themselves; a group which he was not exempt from. It was a place where those of questionable past and sketchy scruples would be most at home.

This ward of _Sigil,_ the _Hive_ , was his home. The streets of the _Hive_ had been the only family he had ever known. Except for his father. But he did not like to think about him; his relationship with his father had always been strained. And he preferred to leave the thoughts at that, if they had to come up at all.

Ravan had very specific memories of his father. He remembered exactly how he looked. Tall, dark hair, pale skin, with those dead-gray eyes. Those eyes that seemed to make one think of the _Gray Wastes_ , because the two were equally hopeless. Equally dreadful. Equally-- _evil._

Alarid remembered that his father loved the taste of Black & Gray's Whiskey. Nor could he forget that look his father would get when he talked about the love of his life. Not Alarid's mother, no, never her. She was just a harlot, a whore, who cursed him with a son he never wanted. No he could never forget that his mother would always be just that to him; a whore whom he was unfortunate enough to procreate with. And it was positively _barmie_ to think that he'd ever be able to make up for being the _ungrateful cur who ruined my life._ Absolutely _barmie._

He abjured those thoughts from his mind; there were far more pressing matters at hand. It was hard to accept that sometimes when the topic of his father seemed to boil to the surface, but this was not a time to be contemplative. That was something he had to repeat to himself quietly a few times before it seemed to take effect. Years of pain always seemed to make it hard to force that man back into his subconscious.

It was as he walked with his hood pulled tightly, hiding the snowy hair, that he stepped into the _Hive_. The rundown tenements with razorvine restricting the life out of them like a hangman's noose seemed to make up the entirety of the horizon. But there was a certain beauty to it all, in a weird sort of way.

These were the poverty-stricken. The people who lived in the slummy apartments did not know luxury, nor leisure. Only a life of struggle to collect the scraps of those above them on the socio-economic food chain. But despite it all, there was a community-wide sense of camaraderie that no other _Ward_ could really understand.

It was in this place that the people were connected by their struggle, even if they preyed upon each other in hopes of escaping it. The Gangs. The Murders. The Robbings. All were evidence that you couldn't trust anyone, but somehow, despite it all, they were still together. Bound by a strange outlook really:

_Myself against my Family._

_My Family against my Street._

_My Street against my Ward._

_My Ward against my City._

_My City against the Multiverse._

That was the unspoken philosophy that permeated the underbelly of _Sigil._ No matter what you endured, you stood together when challenged by the idiotic rich from the _Lady's Ward_ or the foolishly bureaucratic from the _Clerk's Ward_. Because they were not like us. They weren't like any of us. They were soft and weak, and too concerned with things like contracts and treaties. They did not understand what it meant to actually earn your place in the _Cage,_ and by extension, the Multiverse. They only knew how to mince words without meaning. They didn't know what it was like to bleed. What it was like to want. They didn't know, and they would never know, because they were weak. And that was why it you always stood together.

You did not have to like it. You did not have to agree with it. But you did have to do it. Because if ever there was truth to the adage about honor amongst thieves, it was then. Because it would always be us against them. Always.

Ravan snapped away from the mental tangent as he kept his eyes shifting from side to side. He knew how these streets were. That sense of unity born of poverty was genuine, but it was not so strong as to overpower the bleak reality that pervaded those suffering from it. They would do anything to advance their station. They would pounce upon each other and kill one another if for only a chance at living as those they loathed most. It was part of the reason why they would never become anything more than the impoverished urchins they were, but it was not the sole reason. No, the reasoning behind that was far more complex. Poverty was generational and escaping it was like _climbing the Spire_ ; it was more than improbable and more than likely impossible, even in the _City of Doors_ , perhaps even especially then.

Alarid continued walking, glancing to the sides of the streets to see the consequences of that generational poverty in action. These people were downtrodden and destitute. They were without hope. Their children were frail and malnourished, their blood was the only pavement this _Ward_ knew, and they knew that there was no hope for them. Not here. Not anywhere. But that was the life which they led and the life which they were forced to endure.

His mind was adrift as he walked. He knew these people's struggles; he was of the same cloth as these people. But wishful thinking did nobody good in small amounts such as that; belief may have been the fabric of reality, but one man's thoughts were as good as a _Xaositect's_ advice. That is to say, not at all.

It was eventually that he saw the sign protruding forth from a building. Large, black lettering against a wooden sign: _"The Tavern of the Last Hope"._ Alarid felt a small feeling of relief which seemed to manifest as a gentle sigh. For the first time in a long time, something strange had happened. He smiled. Not a large one mind you, but you could tell that there were good thoughts rolling around in his mind.

It was as he approached the building that he could witness it in full. The once snow-white paint was yellowing and peeling to reveal old wooden boards. The windows were fogged up by thousands of tiny fractures within the glass and the bars around them did nothing to add a sense of class and sophistication to the place. No, this place seemed very much a symbol of the _Hive_. It embodied everything about it. Being worn down and once having some greatness to it, as well as preparing for the inevitable day when somebody when try to take from it.

Ravan slowly pulled open the old ebony door to take a brief peek before entering. What he saw was a largely mundane tavern; tables in the center and booths around the perimeter. It was with that confirmation that he stepped in.

The lighting was dim and it smelled of a permutation of three things. Alcohol, sweat, and puke. However, he was not here to enjoy the atmosphere. He was here with a very simple goal. _Galter_. That was his goal.

He stepped in a few steps, approaching the counter. A large creature of once-brilliant, now-dulling crimson scales with butter-milk colored horns jutting from every which way stood behind that counter. His black eyes like spheres of annihilation; they were blacker than the deepest of any darkness and there was no soul behind those eyes. Only emptiness that seemed to go on forever. In a way, it was almost hypnotic to stare into them and wonder exactly how far _forever_ really was.

The Creature opened its rather imposing mouth to reveal a row of serrated fangs that seemed to exist solely for ripping away from the flesh of creatures. However, his opening of the mouth was not for intimidation. He was speaking. His deep voice bellowing throughout the square room. "What would you like to drink?" Such a simple question, completely devoid of malice. It was unbefitting of a creature like this, at least, that's what Alarid thought. But this was a city where the impossible and the improbable were considered only labels to describe the beliefs of those without the innovation to make their dreams into reality.

"While I appreciate the offer, I am here on business and business only," the Tiefling responded. His words selected with precision out of fear. He knew that life was but a match; it could be put out with no effort. Alarid did not wish for his life to be extinguished like the match and hence was careful to demonstrate respect.  

"What business?"

"I seek the one named _Galter. Chant_ is that he is who I need to speak to, to handle my, problems."  
  
It was from a booth in the south-western corner that a man glanced up at that name. His thick hood had been pulled over his face, but it was but a simple swipe that pushed it back to whence it came. Dark hair fell forward which was likewise pushed back to reveal a man's face. He was staring up at Alarid.

"And it would seem he will accept your audience; go."

The Tiefling stepped forward with a sense of gallop to his step. There were long strides and a fast pace; he was ready to make arrangements that would see him gone from _Sigil._ That is what he needed and he knew that it would need to be soon, assuming he did not wish to be fed to the _Wyrm._

It was when the Tiefling arrived that the man sitting there looked up. Dark eyes stared at him; they too were impenetrable. However, they were different. Whereas the others were merely impregnable, these took the offensive and seemed to cut into one's very soul.

"You have found me, Tiefling," he said, his thin lips curling into a frown as he looked back down to his book. "I would advise taking this time to vocalize that you need before I request you leave. Or force it. Whichever mood should strike me."

"My name is Alarid Rav--," the Tiefling started, only to find a hand raised to halt him. He closed his mouth.

"You misunderstood what I said," he curtly chided, a tone of annoyance coloring his speech. "I did not ask for your name, or am I mistaken?"

"Yo--"

"I do not need a response," he continued to chide. "The question was rhetorical. Now tell me again, what you need."

Alarid took a deep breath. His lungs filling with air as he studied the man's face. It was skeletal. Bony. He was exceptionally thin to the point of being gaunt; it was to the point of being perturbing.  "I need the _Chant_ on the portals."

The man sitting opposite of him let his thin, pale-white lips curl into a small smile, betraying his emotions. He arched a dark brow and looked up from his books, "Where are you looking to travel, Tiefling?"

"Anywhere," he blurted out, his mouth struggling to formulate words as fast as his mind was trying to spit them out. "Anywhere but here." Alarid had managed to reign it in that far, but knew much more and he would be babbling incoherently. He'd sound like one of the _Chaosmen_ ( _Xaositects_ to you who don't think they're hopelessly mad).

"Anywhere?" Galter asked and then nodded with a slight tilt to his head. "I think we can arrange a business proposition."

"How much? How much _jink_ will it cost me?"

" _Jink?_ " he asked almost with a sense of bewilderment at the notion. "I do not wish to separate a _canny_ Tiefling like yourself from your money. Rather, I wish to take a favor of you."

"And that is?"

"When you get to where you're going, find a man named _Carro Kansian_ ," the man said, his lips curling into a smirk. "He will handle your debt. Are the terms acceptable?"  
  
"Do I have a choice?"  
  
"How fast would you like out of the _Cage?"_

"Today, absolutely today."  
  
"Then the answer is no."

"Very well," Alarid reluctantly responded. His voice unsure and the glimmer in the man's eyes only seemed to prove that he should be uncomfortable. It was a look of satisfaction; the kind which a barrister gets when he knows he has just crushed the life of some unsuspecting victim. But it was when Galter extended his hand to seal the deal that the Tiefling shook it, however uneasy he was, it did not matter now.

"Inside the Alley on the right of _Imp & Mephit Ingredients_ is a dumpster. Bring with you a steel broadsword with a pommel of steel and leap into the dumpster. It is from there you will find refuge."

"But where will I go?"

"Somewhere other than the _Cage_ ," he answered as his eyes returned to the musty books which he placed much importance on. His answer really was not meant to provide any insight; it was meant to keep it as vague as possible. It was with that thought that the Tiefling got up, his stomach already knotting as the sense of relief seemed to dissipate.

He walked out, his eyes on the lookout for a weapons vendor. It was the _Hive_ , surely there was one somewhere. That was the thought anyways.

Ravan wandered for several minutes. Probably more than several minutes. Maybe a half of an hour. Maybe more. But he wasn't counting the minutes. His mind was so lost in his quest to find a _steel broadsword with a pommel of steel._ Yes, that was all that really mattered to him.

It was when he finally found a man with the kind of sword he sought that the sense of relief returned. It really was transient relief at this point. It would come and go with the ebb and flow of success on his quest to escape this place.

"Ten _Jinx_ fur da sword," the crotchety, old man demanded. He held the sword out and admired it. Rubbing his fingers down the flat of the blade. Feeling it. Enjoying it.

"B-e-a-utiful, in'nt my sword?" he mumbled. It continued further, but the Tiefling paid his rambling no mind. He only dipped into his pockets to pull out a dozen or so coins. Some of which were gold ( _Jinx),_ whereas others were of silver ( _Stingers)_ and copper ( _Greens)._ Overall it amounted to seven _Jinx,_ three _Stingers_ , and four _Greens._

He pressed the coins into the man's hands. The old man pulled them closely and squinted. Counting it seemed like. "Dare, dare is four too many."

"Consider it a tip for the courtesy," Alarid lied. The man could not see and the Tiefling knew it, but he was not about to sabotage himself. No, he would allow this man to make the mistake. After all, if he was too foolish to pay attention to his payment, then he did not deserve anymore than that which was given to him.

The Tiefling gave a forced smile and the Man handed him the sword. It was then that he strode across the _Hive_ , yet again, to _Imp & Mephit. They _ were a household name amongst the poisoners, apothecaries, and other alchemists who made their place of business in the _Hive._ They were known for having supplies from across the Planes, taking orders, and not asking any questions. _Imp & Mephit _ was ideal. And it was for that reason that the owners were enjoying their mansions in the _Lady's Ward_ while some _Berk_ managed their shop.

He slowly stepped into the alley. A _Quipper_ (that's a beggar to those of you who don't know the _Chant)_ glanced up to Alarid who paid him no mind. No, he simply walked past him and stared into the dumpster.

A flood of emotions seemed to fill his mind all at once. Fear. Excitement. Eagerness. Anxiety. But this wasn't a time when he could let those cloud his mind. He knew what he had to do and he was scared. He had lived his entire life in the _Cage_. His entire life. And now he was about to leave it all behind. For what?

That was a question he couldn't answer. And it was one that made him nervous, but he knew it wasn't one that needed an answer. It was one that would have to be set aside, because it was in times like these that he had to forsake his choices in order to survive. It would only be a matter of time before the _Harmonium_ arrested him, and not long after that before the _Guvners_ would find him guilty and then the _Mercykillers_ would execute him.

Alarid looked over his shoulder one last time. It was with a deep breath that he said but one thing, "I will return, one day." It was said so quietly that it barely rated a whisper. But it was said and he meant it. It was with that said that he crawled into the dumpster. He wasn't sure what would happen. He wasn't ready for what would happen. But he knew one thing. That was that it would happen.

                                                                                                                                               


End file.
